


Pretend You've Got No Money

by sneaqui



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Mentions of past drug use and addiction, Mentions of verbal abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-10 11:23:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneaqui/pseuds/sneaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames and Robert Fischer meet twelve years before Inception when Eames almost runs Robert over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretend You've Got No Money

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Inception Reverse Bang for [bunnyford](http://bunnyford.livejournal.com/)'s gorgeous artwork (embedded below).
> 
> Beta-ed by [beanarie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beanarie), [ladderax (allnuthatchforest)](http://archiveofourown.org/users/allnuthatchforest) and [soubriquet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/soubriquet) (who also Brit-picked for me) . <3 <3 <3
> 
> Title is a lyric from Pulp's "Common People".

As soon as he’s dropped off the documents with his employer, Eames floors it to Gerry’s pub because he’s in desperate need of a pint and because he can. The fact that the police won’t find drugs or guns in his car if they pull him over is the only aspect of going sober that he’s found enjoyable thus far. Less fun is having to pull two all-nighters in a row and forge three passports and five visas without the use of amphetamines.

On the other hand, his work is of a much higher quality than it was when he was using. His employer, Josephine, offered him a genuine smile when he handed over the finished products, something he’s only seen one other time in the three years he’s worked for her. Also nice is the fact that he currently has no chemicals running through his bloodstream aside from caffeine, nicotine and adrenaline. Once he gets some chips and a pint in him, he should be able to drop off into blissful, dreamless sleep.

He turns right onto Vicar’s Road and is just a couple minutes away from Gerry’s when a young man clad in black darts out of a nearby alleyway and runs into the street. Eames slams his foot down on the brake. The wheels on the car lock up and the tires squeal as they attempt to grip the tarmac.

The sound causes the man to freeze in the middle of the street, seemingly in defiance of self preservation. He turns to face Eames, and Eames can only watch dumbly as his car continues to slide forward, the headlights illuminating the man’s face and shrinking his pupils to pinpricks.

Eames’ car comes to a stop just a couple of feet in front of the man’s knees. He looks up at Eames through the windscreen, back down at the car’s bumper and then back up at Eames, as if he can’t decide whether to be angry at the car or its driver. At last he says, eyes narrowed and voice pitched low, “Where did you learn how to drive?”

Eames is too blindsided by the man’s derision to be angry. He opens his mouth to respond, but no words come out.

The man stuffs his hands into his pockets and waits for Eames to answer him. There are wet strands of brown hair falling across his eyes, as if he got caught in the rain that was falling just an hour ago. His jaw is outlined with the beginnings of a ginger beard, and his eyes are the clear blue of the ocean in places that Eames has never been to. He’s gorgeous.

Eames’ reverie is disturbed by another young man jumping out of the alleyway. This one catches sight of Eames and skids to a halt just outside the car’s passenger-side window.

Eames looks over and sighs when he sees who it is. He rolls down his window and says, “Patchy, is that you?”

Patchy startles, his pointy shoulders jumping underneath his hoodie. He looks even more pale and wild-eyed than he did the last time Eames saw him, and his mouth is surrounded by a sparse blond beard that only covers his chin and the skin above his lips (hence the nickname). When he recognizes Eames, his face lights up and he grins, revealing a mouthful of jagged yellow teeth. He nods and says, “Alright, Eames?”

“Patchy, when did they let you out of prison? I thought you were in for another year.”

“Got out early on account of good behavior,” Patchy says, his chest puffing out a bit. Eames notices that he’s holding a blade, and looks forward at the man still standing in front of his car. There’s a thin trail of blood running from a small cut on his brow down into his beard, and he’s creeping backwards out of the street and towards the opposite sidewalk with his eyes fixed on Patchy’s knife.

Patchy follows Eames’ line of sight and smiles. “Thought I’d show this posh asshole what I learned to do with a knife in the big house.”

Eames reserves a special sort of hate for boys like Patchy, upper-class fuckups that come into the neighborhood in which Eames grew up and make trouble out of boredom. Eames keeps his eyes on the nervous man standing in front of his car and growls, “Go home to your estate, Patchy.”

“Eames, mate, come on--”

“Go home, or I’ll tell Smyth that you’re out. How much is it that you owe him?”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Patchy begins to walk backwards into the alleyway, knife up and pointed towards Eames. “I’ve got people now, Eames.”

“Good for you.”

“They’ll hear about you.”

“Let them know that I do university admission letters and family portraits.”

Patchy sneers and disappears into the alleyway. Eames looks forward and sees that the young man is now walking up the pavement on the opposite side of the street, his hood pulled up over his head and his hands in his pockets.

Eames shifts into first gear and presses on the accelerator light enough for the car to crawl slowly forward. He rolls down his window and calls out, “Where are you headed?”

The man doesn’t look up at him. “Back to my hotel.”

“You’re in for a long walk. No hotels within five miles of here.”

“I’ll catch a cab.”

“At this time of night in this neighborhood? You’ll find trouble long before you find a cab.”

The man stops walking, tilts his head back and lets out a deep breath. He turns on his heel and regards Eames, looking as impatient and unimpressed as he did when standing in front of Eames’ car.

Eames is well aware of how strung-out he looks right now. He rubs at the three-day-old stubble on his chin and sighs. “If you tell me to fuck off, I will. But I would much rather give you a ride back to your hotel or at least to the nearest tube station.” Eames looks into the man’s eyes in an effort to convey his sincerity. “You’re already injured.” He nods at the cut on the man’s forehead. “You look like a victim. There are a lot of the blokes running around this time of night that would love to get their hands on you.”

“How do I know you’re not one of them?”

Eames shrugs. “I suppose you don’t.”

The man nods, and the tip of his tongue peaks out to perch on his top lip “I, uh... I’m not staying in a hotel. I’m staying in a hostel. And I got locked out.” He looks down the street and laughs, a small sad sound. “It doesn’t open again for another four hours. I don’t even have enough cash on me to get a hotel room.”

Eames smiles, charmed by the appearance of both the man’s vulnerability and his tongue. “What’s your name?”

The man looks back at Eames and says, “Robert.”

“Well, Robert, there’s a pub just down the street. I was going to stop in for a pint and a bite to eat if you’d like to join me.”

Robert studies Eames’ face while he considers his proposition. Instead of answering, Robert asks him, “What’s your name?”

It’s a question Eames should have expected given the trajectory of their conversation, but it still makes him squirm. He’s started asking people to call him by his given name in an effort to put some distance between his current and his former (drug-addled) self. It isn’t working out so well. He can just see the boys at the pub laughing if Robert were to call him Thomas. “My name is Eames.”

Robert nods, looks back down the street. “Where did you say this place was?”

“Just down the road. You can see it if you squint.”

Robert squints and says nothing.

“C’mon, mate,” Eames says. “Get in the car with the charming stranger. It can only end well.”

Robert doesn’t so much laugh as say, “Ha.” He walks around the back of the car and opens the passenger-side door. He pauses for a moment before getting in. “Okay. But fair warning: if anything happens to me, they’ll come looking for you.” He slides into the seat and closes the door.

Eames shifts the car into gear and says, “Who are ‘they’?”

Robert smiles. “Fuck with me, and you’ll find out.”

~

Gerry’s pub is a squat, wattle and daub affair that’s at least two hundred years older than the row houses and shops that run along the same street. The paint on the wooden sign hanging out front has almost entirely worn off, and the pub’s original name, The Knave and the Needle, is only visible in the daylight.

Eames is fully aware that it looks much more charming on the outside than it does on the inside, so he’s not surprised when Robert halts just inside the front door and stares. The old oak bar is still intact as is the shelving behind it. Everything else -- the tables, chairs, light fixtures and frayed carpets covering the sagging wood floor -- is second hand. The pub is empty aside from a man standing behind the bar and two elderly gentlemen hunched over a game of chess in the corner.

Eames turns around and waves Robert forward. “C’mon,” he says, “I think they can squeeze us in.” And then he says, loud enough for the man standing behind the bar to hear, “Isn’t that right, Gerry? Crowds all went home for the night?”

Gerry doesn’t look up from the pint glass he’s drying off. “When they heard you were coming, yeah.” He puts down the pint glass, picks up another one. “Anton was in here looking for you.”

All the energy that Eames picked up in the past twenty minutes drains right back out of his body. Eames ran drugs for Anton up until five months ago when he got clean, and Anton only allowed Eames to quit on the condition that he find himself a replacement.

Eames grips the edge of the bar and leans forward. “When was he here?” he asks Gerry.

“Couple hours ago.”

“Did he say what he wanted?”

Gerry shrugs. “Same thing he always wants, I’d imagine.”

“Of course. He’s just waiting for me to snatch some poor kid from the estates and hand him over to him.” Eames grips the lip of the bar harder and snarls, “Fuck.”

Gerry says, “You’re not meant to be his replacement, are you, son? You don’t look the sort.”

It takes Eames a moment to realize that Gerry is speaking to Robert. In his fit of rage, Eames had almost forgot he was here.

“No, I’m not his replacement. I’m just some guy he almost ran over.” Robert slides his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. “Can I get a Guinness?”

Gerry chuckles. “You Americans don’t fuck around, do you?” He grabs a pint glass and a spoon and holds them under the tap. “I’ve some antiseptic and plasters in the back if you want to get yourself cleaned up. Eames-”

“Got it.” Eames is already on his way to the back. He says over his shoulder, “And pour me a lager, would you?”

“I thought you were on the wagon."

“I quit speed, Gerry. I didn’t join the fucking clergy.”

Eames walks into the supply closet, pulls a tin toolbox off of a shelf and digs through an assortment of pliers, wrenches and rusty nails until he finds a bottle of antiseptic, a tube of Neosporin and a plaster. He then grabs a handful of toilet roll out of the gents and walks back out to the bar. He sits on the stool next to Robert’s, facing toward him and arranges the collection of items on his thighs.

Robert looks down at Eames’ lap, and Eames follows the line of his gaze, grins and says, “See anything you like?”

The blank expression on Robert’s face doesn’t falter. He drums his fingers on the side of his glass and says, “I can do that myself, you know.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can. But it’d be easier if you let me do it for you. The mirror in the gents isn’t what it used to be. And it’s the least I can do after nearly running you over.”

Robert keeps his eyes on Eames as he picks up his glass and takes another sip of his drink. He puts it back down on the bar slowly, swivels his stool to face Eames and says, “Alright. Go ahead.” He brushes the hair back from his forehead, leans forward and closes his eyes.

Eames tips a bit of antiseptic onto a handful of toilet roll and presses it onto the cut on Robert’s forehead. Robert frowns but otherwise shows no signs of discomfort.

“You’re good at that,” Eames says.

“Good at what?”

“Pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

Robert shrugs. “I’ve had worse.”

“Sounds like there’s a story there.” Eames unscrews the cap from the tube of Neosporin and is about to dab some onto his finger when he realizes that his hands are probably filthy.

Robert opens his eyes and looks down at Eames’ hands. “There are several stories.” His voice is absent emotion, as if he’s stating a fact rather than recalling a bad memory. He looks up at Eames, and the frankness of his gaze makes Eames a bit uncomfortable.

Eames slides off the stool and walks around to the other side of the bar. He turns on the tap and pours a bit of dishwashing liquid into his palm. “So, pick your favorite story and tell me about it,” he says.

“I’m too sober to start spilling my guts to you,” Robert says.

Eames walks back around the bar, drying his hands on a clean rag. “You’d rather start with more inane topics, then?” He jumps back onto his stool and grabs the ointment. “Lovely weather we’ve been having. Surprisingly dry for spring.”

Robert laughs, a short puff of air to signal that he gets the joke, as if he’s doing Eames a courtesy. He takes another sip of his drink and then closes his eyes and leans forward again. He speaks while Eames dabs some Neosporin on his brow. “When I was thirteen, I was skiing in the Alps with my dad and fell halfway down a mountain. I broke my right arm in two places. _That_ hurt.”

“I would imagine so.” Eames wipes the Neosporin off his fingers with the rag and then peels the packaging off of the plaster.

“He refused to take me to the hospital at first. He kept telling me I was fine and that I was just being melodramatic. It wasn’t until the next day when my arm began to swell up and turn purple that he finally took me in.”

Eames winces in sympathy and lays the plaster gently across the cut on Robert’s forehead. “Your dad sounds like a bit of a bastard.”

“No, he’s all right. He’s just a believer in tough love. And sometimes I need it. I’m not exactly the ideal son.”

Eames’ jaw clenches and his nostrils flare when he breathes out. “Don’t make excuses for your dad. If he’s an asshole then that’s all there is to it. No one should treat their child like an inconvenience.”

Robert’s eyes flick open, and he rocks back on his stool a bit, looking surprised. He says, “Sounds like there’s a story there.”

“There is. A long one. But I’m not going to tell it to you.” Eames grabs the first aid supplies and the wrapper he’s left on the bar and walks back into the supply closet without waiting for Robert’s response.

When he walks back to the bar, he finds that Gerry has reappeared behind it and Robert has vanished. Gerry catches Eames’ eye and points his thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the back room where the billiard table and the dartboards are.

Eames finds Robert there, hefting a cue in each hand, comparing their weight. Eames chuckles and says, “It’s not the weight of the cue that’s going to lose the game for you.” He nods at the shabby billiard table. “It’s the fact that there are holes in the felt and one leg is being propped up by a phone book.”

Robert smirks at him and says, “Is that gonna be your excuse when I beat you?”

Eames tilts his head and grins. “You think you’re going to win?”

“I’ve been playing pool since I was twelve.”

“And I’ve been hustling tourists like you since I was fourteen.”

Robert’s smile widens. “Sounds like we’re pretty evenly matched.” He tosses one of the cues at Eames who catches it easily and twirls it through his fingers.

Robert grabs a chalk and rubs it against the end of his cue. “Let’s play.”

~

Eames prefers to play pool at a leisurely pace. He’ll stretch a game out to thirty or forty minutes by circling the table and looking at the configuration of balls from several different angles. Robert plays the game quickly and well. Eames barely has time to sip his drink in between turns.

Within an hour they’ve played four games, and Robert has won three of them. He’s also had four drinks to Eames’ two and shows no signs of slowing down.

They don’t speak while they play and their eyes remain on the table. For the most part. Eames finds himself looking at Robert more often and for longer as the minutes tick by and the temperature in the room begins to climb with their combined body heat. Robert strips off his hoodie to reveal a worn black t-shirt with a stretched-out collar, and Eames’ eyes lock onto the pink flush creeping up Robert’s chest and neck.

Robert bends over to take a shot, and from where he’s standing Eames can see clear down the front of Robert’s shirt. The flat plane of his chest is shadowed, but his stomach is illuminated by the light creeping up under the hem.

Robert misses the shot, and the eight ball hits the bank and rolls across the otherwise empty felt. He sighs and stands up straight, running a hand through his hair, which has begun to dampen at the roots with sweat. His eyes catch Eames’, and Eames realizes that he’s been caught staring. Robert stares back and doesn’t move away from the table, his hipbones pressed against its edge.

Now would be the perfect time to close the distance between them and kiss him, but Eames hesitates for a moment. And then he does the opposite of what he usually does when trying to seduce someone. He says exactly what he’s thinking. “Come back to mine.”

Robert frowns. “What?”

“Come back to mine,” Eames says again. He grips the edge of the billiard table and leans forward. “Spend the night with me.”

Robert looks away from him and walks over to the table where they’ve put their drinks. He picks his up, takes a sip and puts it back down again. He licks his lips and says, “Do you make a habit of this? Picking up tourists?”

Eames chuckles. “No, I don’t.” He lays his cue across the table and leans over to take his shot. “What about you? No tour of Europe is complete without a certain number of regrettable hook-ups. Preferably with locals whose names you can’t pronounce.”

“I can pronounce your name just fine.”

Eames looks up from the felt. “But you think you might regret coming home with me?”

“And who said I was touring Europe?” Robert leans back against the table on which their drinks sit, holding his cue out in front of chest with both hands.

Eames takes his shot and misses. “You said you were staying in a hostel. And you have the unwashed look of a weary traveler about you.”

Robert hoists his cue up in his right hand and walks over to the table to take his turn. “I don’t like showering in front of strangers. Or stepping into showers that they’ve probably pissed and fucked in.”

Eames chuckles into his lager before taking a sip of it. “So you _are_ touring Europe. Where’s London on the itinerary?”

“It was just a layover at first. I had to go through Heathrow to get to Dublin.”

“What’s in Dublin?”

“My grandma. My dad’s mom. He sent me to visit her. And then I was on my way back to Sydney when he called me and told me not to come home.” Robert shoots, and the eight ball sinks into the side pocket in front of Eames.

“Gave you a bunch of money and told you to get lost, did he?”

“Something like that. He’s under a lot of stress right now. The company’s being audited.” Robert walks around the table and tucks his cue into the holder on the wall. Apparently, they’re done playing.

Eames follows Robert’s lead and does the same. “What’s ‘the company’?” he asks.

Robert picks his drink up off the table and walks toward the opposite wall and an empty booth. “Fischer-Morrow,” he says over his shoulder.

“Christ, that’s a big one, isn’t it? What’s his title?” Eames hovers behind Robert, waiting for him to sit.

Robert slides into the booth, places his drink down and looks up and across the table at Eames. “He’s the CEO.”

“The CEO,” Eames repeats.

“Yeah. Maurice Fischer.”

Eames has never heard of Maurice Fischer before, but the fact that he’s CEO and one eponymous half of one of the largest energy corporations in the world implies a truly terrifying amount of wealth and power. Eames is suddenly incredibly uncomfortable being in the same room as his son. He peers down into his drink and mutters, “Fucking hell.” before tipping it back and pouring a large draught down his throat.

Robert continues to stare at him from across the table, seemingly waiting for a response or for Eames to run screaming from the pub. Eames takes his time swallowing his lager, pulls the pint away from his lips and says, “You shouldn’t trust me.”

Robert smirks up at him. “Why? Are you gonna kidnap me and demand a ransom?”

“I’d be daft not to consider it. Maybe then I’d have a chance of getting out of this fucking city.”

“You could leave the country and never come back with the kind of money my dad would give you.”

“And what kind of money would that be?”

“Depends on how much you ask for. You don’t want to ask for too much. Four or five million would be reasonable. If you put it in a Swiss bank account you wouldn’t have to pay taxes on it, and it would incur enough interest that you wouldn’t have to work for the rest of your life.”

“To be honest the idea of having nothing to do for the rest of my life sounds a bit terrifying.”

Robert frowns down at the surface of the table. “Yeah. Yeah, it does.”

Eames feels comfortable enough with Robert’s eyes off of him that he finally slides into the booth with him, keeping a couple feet of space between them. “I take it your dad doesn’t give you a lot of work to do.”

Robert’s head snaps up. “I work longer hours than most of our employees. I’m in the office seven days a week, ten to twelve hours every day.”

Eames is fascinated by the sudden intensity and pride Robert displays when the topic shifts from his personal life to the work he does for the company. “Is that by choice?” Eames asks.

“That would imply that I have a choice. I don’t. This isn’t a job; it’s my life. I’m not an employee. I can’t afford to think in terms of what I’m accomplishing every hour, every day, every month. Everything I do has to be for the long-term good of the company. Because if I mess it up then I’m messing up my future.”

Eames nods. “Going sober’s like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re supposed to take sobriety one day at a time, yeah? That’s what they tell you. And that’s what you have to tell yourself in order to get through each day. But in the back of your mind you always know that it’s-- it’s a life sentence. You slip up even once, whether it’s today or tomorrow or next year or twenty years from now, all your hard work is for nothing. You’re right back where you started.”

“You make sobriety sound terrifying,” Robert says.

Eames waves his hand about, attempting to dispel the suddenly heavy mood in the air. “It’s not all that bad. I’m doing much better work now that my brain isn’t constantly jumping from one thing to another. I’ve got my appetite back. I’m sleeping better. And my cock is finally taking an interest in the proceedings, although I haven’t had much chance to use it since...” Eames trails off, realizing how pathetic and undesirable he must appear right now.

“Since?” Robert prompts him.

Eames sighs. “Not a good idea to be frequenting the clubs when you’re newly sober. And none of my mates think I’m any fun anymore. Which, honestly, I’m not.”

Robert leans back against red leather cushioning that lines the booth, smiles and says, “I think you’re fun.”

Eames chuckles and covers his face with his hands. “Christ, you sound like my gran.”

Their mutual snickering is interrupted when Gerry walks into the room, sliding his coat onto his arms. “Closing up for the night, Eames. You’ll be alright if I leave you alone with the Yank?”

Robert scoffs, and Eames smirks in his direction and says, “Yeah, I’ll be alright.”

Gerry looks between them, shakes his head and says, “I’ve locked the back door. Don’t forget to lock it again if you go out and come back in.”

Eames raises his lager in Gerry’s direction. “Will do. Cheers, Gerry.”

Once Gerry has left, Robert looks at Eames out of the side of his eyes and says, “You live in a pub?”

“I live _above_ a pub.”

“Why?”

“Why not? This used to be an inn, you know. And it’s a perfectly serviceable flat. Indoor plumbing and everything...” Eames trails off when he realizes that Robert is staring at him, a slight smile quirking his lips.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Robert says.

Eames grins. “Would you like to?”

“Yeah, I would,” Robert answers and knocks back the rest of his drink.

~

Eames is going to come. Robert’s ass is clenched around the entire length of his cock, and his legs are wrapped around Eames’ hips, ankles locked together at the small of Eames’ back. His head is tilted so far back over one of Eames’ pillows that he’s almost kissing the headboard, and every one of Eames’ thrusts pushes him closer to doing so. Robert either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. His hair is completely soaked with sweat, and he’s gripping the roots of it with one hand and Eames’ bicep with the other.

Eames leans over to bite at Robert’s jaw, his neck, his earlobe. He gasps into Robert’s skin, “Christ, Robbie, tell me-- tell me what to do.” Eames swivels his hips, trying to find an angle that will bring Robert as close to the edge as he is. But Robert moans loudly and indiscriminately regardless of how Eames fucks him. So Eames decides to experiment a bit. He wraps one hand around the back of Robert’s neck and the other around his waist and pulls Robert to his chest. He leans back and spreads his thighs so that Robert can sit in his lap.

“Oh fuck,” Robert groans, sinking down onto Eames’ cock. “Fuck yeah.” He wraps his arms around Eames’ shoulders and grinds his ass into Eames’ pelvis. “Feels so good, Eames.”

Eames hasn’t fucked anyone in months, and he hasn’t fucked anyone as responsive or vocal as Robert _ever_. He’s not going to last. He slides a hand into the narrow bit of space between their stomachs so that he can fist Robert’s cock, and no sooner has he grazed it with the tips of his fingers than Robert chokes on a breath and seizes up, his cock stiffening and spurting come into the palm of Eames’ hand.

Eames gasps, “Fucking hell.”

Robert drops his forehead onto Eames’ shoulder and groans. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t-- don’t stop.”

Eames opens his mouth to tell Robert that he wasn’t planning on it but loses the thought when Robert tightens his thighs around Eames’ waist and leans backwards, tipping them over into the position they started in. Eames falls forward, and his cock slides deeper into Robert’s body. He thrusts roughly once, twice and comes, trembling as Robert presses kisses to his chest.

~

Eames wakes up with the soft white light of early morning on his face and the taste of stale lager in his mouth. He rolls over to see Robert pacing and scanning the floor, likely in search of his clothes. Robert locates his boxer briefs and jeans but has a more difficult time finding his t-shirt.

Eames watches him silently for a few minutes, charmed by the confused frown on Robert’s face, before he speaks up. “I think it’s wrapped around my calf.”

Robert jumps a couple inches in the air, startled.

Eames chuckles and lifts up the covers. “One sec.” He ducks under the sheets to find that Robert’s shirt is in fact tangled around his leg. He frees it and resurfaces to hand it to Robert. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” Robert doesn’t look at him when he takes it, and he doesn’t put it on either. He fiddles with the hem, clears his throat and says, “I should-- should probably get back to the hostel.”

Eames sits up on the mattress. “That’s probably a good idea. Wouldn’t want anyone running off with all your stuff. Although, I feel bad for anyone that tries to steal from you. Your father would probably send a whole team of people after them.”

Robert finally looks up at Eames, and when he sees that Eames is smiling, he seems to relax a bit. He pulls his shirt on over his head, picks his shoes and socks up off the floor and walks around to Eames’ side of the bed to sit and put them on. “So,” he says, “I saw some of your work.” He nods toward the table in the main room of Eames’ flat where Eames (stupidly) left out a couple passports that he’s been working on. “You know, that’s the kind of work that you don’t have to stay in London to do.”

Eames frowns. “What makes you say that?”

“You said you wanted to get out of London, right? I think you should.”

“Just like that? Just up and go?”

Robert finishes tying his shoes and stands. “Yeah. Why not?”

A smile stretches across Eames’ face at the mere thought of going someplace else. He’s thought about it before, but hearing the same thought come out of someone else’s mouth makes it more real, more possible. He looks up at Robert. “I’ll consider it.”

“Good,” Robert says. He wraps his hand around the back of Eames’ neck and leans down to kiss him, brief and gentle. When he pulls back, he smiles and says, “I had a good time last night. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Eames says.

Robert grabs his hoodie off the floor, walks to Eames’ bedroom doorway and pauses. He turns around, opens his mouth to speak and then closes it, as if he’s trying to come up with the ideal parting words. After a couple moments of silence, he says, “Maybe I’ll see you around sometime?”

Eames chuckles, “Considering the line of work I’m in, I hope you don’t.”

“I’d be an easy mark. I probably wouldn’t recognize you. I’m really bad with faces.”

“Well, lucky for you I’m good with them.”

Robert nods and smiles. “Take care of yourself, Eames.”

“You too, Robert.”

Robert turns out of the doorway, and closes Eames’ front door softly when he leaves.

Eames sits in bed for a long time after Robert’s gone, wide awake despite the early hour, his thoughts all over the place but his mood calm. He smiles when he remembers that his employer has contacts in Amsterdam.


End file.
